Poem, Sagas, Short story, Weekend

That place.

It looks nothing as it did, where I had grown from birth.

Where once clear skies of memory shone through times of good and bad,

Now lay unfamiliar sights and shapes where decay holds and consumes.

As though given to a caretaker whose heart was filled with malice,

As though their acts were done to bury all that which was.

“It’s all for the better” the stranger say, who saw not this place as I.

“Life moves onward” they continue, faces that grew not in this place.

Consumed with certainty within these words, they rush this way and that,

As rats forced into minuscule cages they run in endless circles.

All the while they toil and build upon this unfamiliar place,

A place which holds them in no regard so long as they work without question.

A place in which they work in the hopes of moving on themselves.

But never do they move nor speak too ill of where they are.

Only ever do they move onward to build no future for themselves.

On they go, convinced in right, in just and purest of all causes.

But never do they see a gain for their continued plight,

Mastered by those who do not care for cause but coin,

A cause made by those masters to bring the rest to heel.

And all along the place I knew is buried far below,

In all but memory lost it is,

What was the world in a corner so small I had hoped to see again.

If only to see how small it was,

I never thought it could be so lost.

Yet I stood where I did as a child,

And neither did the earth remember me.

I had thought that memory would recall,

But that is all that remains.

2 thoughts on “That place.”

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